St. Raven (35 page)

Undeniable pride swelled in her. “Are in my pocket. I had just extracted them when Crofton burst in.”

“Bravo, my indomitable Miss Mandeville. Is it wise of me to call on you tomorrow? I would like to.”

“Why not?”

“Your mother is aware of this venture, you said?”

“Oh, yes.” What an age ago that seemed, and yet it had only been this morning. “I don’t think she’ll batter you with a stool. After all, we will be home again before nightfall.” No need for him to know that she’d confessed to more than that. “And I do want to know your cousin’s story. Are you sure—?”

“Absolutely. There will be no scandal out of this. I’ll make sure of that.”

“I was the one who insisted on coming,” she said.

“We couldn’t have expected Crofton’s interruption. Without that, everything would have been smooth.”

As they talked, she saw farewell in his eyes and felt it in her heart. She had a visit to look forward to tomorrow, but then this journey was over.

Too soon, a rumble told of the approaching coach. His longing for one last kiss must be as desperate as hers, but who knew who watched? Even these precious, lingering moments had been foolish.

The coach rumbled in, and ostlers leaped to change the horses. Cressida had only a moment to look at Tris, then she hurried to present her ticket and be allowed to climb on. By the time she’d squeezed into the middle of a seat, all was ready and she had to let it take her away without even a wave.

A wave seemed entirely inadequate for the end of this part of her life. The end of the Travels of Cressida Mandeville.

She had not found dragons, serpents, and cockadrills, but she’d encountered equally fantastical beasts—dukes, whores, and highwaymen. And there among them she had found and lost the most precious treasure of all.

Jean-Marie Bourreau stood in thought, watching from a window as first the laden stage left, then his cousin in his most excellent curricle drawn by most excellent horses.

Thus the adventure ended, and it seemed he would gain what he had come for—the fulfillment of his vow to his mother, and the means to live the life of a gentleman artist in France. It was his right. It was less than his father had promised.

And yet, he felt a pang. In his cousin, whom he had expected to hate, he had found someone he could like very much. He shrugged. He would fix that if he could, but not at the price of his necessities.

He turned from the window and began to finish the work on the easel. He had a few commissions to complete— all decorous portraits. Then London and settlement with his cousin. Then, thank the good God, a boat for France. France, where he could report at his mother’s grave that he had made the Duke of St. Raven pay. France, where he could return to a civilized life.

Why on earth Napoleon had ever wanted to invade England, he could not imagine.

He had just finished the work when the door opened and a woman walked in. She wore an elegant blue outfit, but he recognized her.

He bowed. “Madame Coop.”

She closed the door. “You stole something from me, sir.”

Now here was a delightful surprise, both the lady and the fact that she spoke in tolerable French. “Did I?”

The deep blue matched her lovely, knowing eyes. “If you did, monsieur, you would find me very generous in payment…”

She slowly, expertly, ran a tongue around her lips, lips that were doubtless reddened, but so subtly that she could still appear a lady.

Jean-Marie sighed with pleasure and walked toward her. “Payment from you, madame, would be more precious to me than gold and rubies. But alas, I fear I have nothing to sell.”

A brow rose. “No?”

“You behold a fool. In a fit of most abject folly, I have just returned that statue to its rightful owner.”

“The rightful owner of that statue is me, sir!”

“Alas, no. It is a gentleman called Mandeville.”

Her arched brows twitched into a puzzled frown. “The nabob who lost everything to Crofton? What madness made you do that? If they were anybody’s, they were Crofton’s.” She swirled to pace the small room, magnificently angry. “Devil take you, sir, you had no right to do that. That statue was mine!”

“What can it matter to you, my most beautiful lady? A statue worth perhaps thirty pounds. Of course,” he said, suddenly thoughtful, “so many seemed to want it…”

She paused to look at him. “What? Who?”

Jean-Marie considered possible danger to his cousin and the interesting Miss Mandeville, but he was careless by nature. “The Duke of St. Raven was here. He also wanted it. For a little houri, he said. He has arranged to purchase it from the Mandevilles.”

“Damn the man, he’s gammoned me!” But then she shrugged, a wry smile on her lips. “It seems I have dragged myself from my bed at dawn and hurtled about the country for no purpose at all.”

“For no purpose?” Jean-Marie strolled to her and took her hand. “I have a bed, beautiful lady, if you need to make up for lost time.”

She eyed him as a duchess might eye a peasant. “I doubt you can afford me, monsieur.”

He tugged on her hand. “Perhaps we can discuss it, madame. In bed.”

She resisted. “That is not the way I do business.”

She had not, however, pulled free, and her eyes were amused, intrigued, perhaps even aroused. He had grown up in the company of whores, and he knew many retained the gift to allow themselves true pleasure in the right times.

“Then perhaps, this is not business. I am not entirely the highwayman, my lovely Miranda. Surely you are not entirely the whore? Can we not sometimes do just as we please, without thought of commerce?”

He raised his hands and pushed off her charming, elegant hat, and still, she did not resist.

Cressida arrived home in a hackney carriage, and her mother opened the door, a thousand anxieties in her eyes.

As soon as she was in the house, Cressida fell into her arms. “It worked!” she exclaimed, burying the tragic aspects deep. “I have them.”

She pulled free and led her mother up to her bedroom. She shut the door, then dug in her pocket, and pulled out the handful of jewels to pour them, shining, into her mother’s hands.

Her mother looked down at them. “So few, but they are beautiful… Surely there must be enough here to pay our way.” But then she looked up. “And you, dearest?”

Cressida put on her brightest smile. “I’m home before I could be wicked, you see.” But she busied herself in taking off her dull bonnet and the cap with the curls before turning back. “And it’s for the best, Mama. He doesn’t care for me. Not in the right way.”

She lied because it was a lie she had to believe.

“The duke does want to call here tomorrow, if you don’t object. To ensure that I am all right, and to explain one part of the adventure.”

Her mother stared for a moment, but then looked at the jewels. “I can hardly object, can I?”

“He’s arranged for the return of a lot of Father’s Indian ornaments from Stokeley, as well.”

“How?”

“It’s a long story…”

And yet it took such a short time to relate the events in Hatfield.

“Oh, dear,” her mother said. “There will be talk.”

“Talk?” How could her mother guess about the orgy and the houri?

“Your being there unchaperoned and encountering drunken men. It will seem a little rash, dear.”

Once she, too, would have quailed at that, but now it seemed a mere nothing. “I don’t think it will ruin me, Mama.”

“True, and no one need know that you traveled part of the way with the duke. That was foolish, dear, and I should never have permitted it. Heaven knows what would happen if they ever learned of such a thing in Matlock.”

True, true. “I know it, Mama, but don’t worry. I’m done with wildness now.”

Her mother embraced her. “I knew I could trust to your good sense. Come along, and we’ll see what effect this treasure has on your poor father.”

Cressida followed her mother down the corridor to her parents’ room, unable to stop thinking that her “poor father” was the author of all their problems.

And yet, he had caused her adventures, too. Impossible to imagine returning to Matlock without ever having known Tris as more than the Duke of St. Raven, glimpsed across glittering rooms.

Sir Arthur lay in the bed in the same state as before, eyes fixed on nothing, limp, looking eerily not there. Her mother hurried over. “See, dear, here’s Cressida with your lost property. Your jewels.”

Nothing.

Her mother took his limp hand and put the jewels into it, closing his hand over them. Did his brows twitch?

Cressida sat on the other side of the bed, trying to think of the right words. “I took them back from Crofton, Father. A couple of gentlemen helped me. We have all the statues back, and most of the smaller items from Stokeley. Not the bronze Buddha, I’m afraid. Hard to carry that on a horse.”

Was that movement of his lips a weak smile?

What else to say? Surely he’d like to hear of Crofton’s defeat.

“Crofton was furious. Almost raging. I thought he might fall to the ground and froth at the mouth! And…”—dangerous, but necessary—“one of the gentlemen who helped me was the Duke of St. Raven. He squashed Crofton with a look.”

“Crofton…” It came out hoarse, as from a person with a sore throat, but it was a word, and her father blinked. He turned his head slowly to look at Cressida, then at her mother. “Louisa?”

Tears escaped down her mother’s cheeks. “Yes, love. And see, here are the jewels. There is enough, here, isn’t there, for a decent life?”

Her father began to tremble, perhaps with life returning to his limbs. “Praise God, praise God. Oh, Louisa, love, I’ve been such a fool.”

Cressida’s mother gathered him into her arms. “I know, dear. And if you are ever so stupid again, I will part your hair with a chair! I know what you’ve been up to, escaping into this state so that I couldn’t give you all the many angry pieces of my mind that I have wanted to…”

Biting her lip, Cressida tiptoed out of the room. She didn’t think her parents noticed. Though touched, she wondered at her mother’s complete forgiveness.

Yet her father might never change his nature, and the marriage vows did include “for better, for worse.” That made her think of Tris, who had suggested that her father was addicted to adventure, to risk, and had arranged his entire life to provide it. They said the best thief-takers were thieves. Had Tris recognized a nature similar to his own?

That was another reason to lock him away in the forbidden part of her mind. She was not like her mother, and would never tolerate such impossible behavior, especially if it involved other women!

Her mother’s nature, however, meant that she, too, could not be relied on for security. She would bend to her husband’s persuasions.

A trust fund, Cressida thought, heading briskly back to her room. She didn’t know exactly how that worked, but she knew that once a trust was set up for a woman, it was hers to manage. A husband or father could not misuse it. And jewelry. This time she would allow her father to give her as much fine jewelry as he could afford. She would not be forced into desperate need again, into desperate ventures to exotic lands. She was returning to Matlock and common sense for the rest of her life.

Tris arrived home intent on privacy. Since he’d not taken a servant he had to drive to the mews and enter his house through the kitchens. His servants were not unaccustomed to this, but giving them careless smiles was a strain.

He reached the hall as the knocker rapped. The footman there hurried to answer it before Tris could stop him, so when it opened he was pinned in view of his oldest cousin, Cornelia, Countess of Tremaine. She had always been heavy and sour, but now in her forties, she was developing a mustache and jowls.

Whatever the footman was trying to say, Cornelia plodded by him, reinforced by her own footman and maid. “St. Raven. I need to speak with you.”

He almost had her thrown out, but duty required a minimum of courtesy to relatives.

“Of course, cousin. Please come up to the drawing room.” He even found a smile for the miserable footman. “Tea, Richard.”

He had not changed the drawing room from his uncle’s day, and that seemed to find his cousin’s approval. Even so, as she thumped down on a sofa, she said, “You need a wife.”

He looked around. “To dust?”

“To procreate.”

He couldn’t resist. “Not a strict necessity, cousin.”

Insane to think it would fluster her.

“For an heir, it is. Since you lack parent or guardian, it is my duty to bring you to awareness of your duties to the name.”

He felt his jaw ache with tension. “Cousin Cornelia, this is not a good time—”

“Hungover, are you? Probably never a time when you’re not.”

“Of course there is.” He bit it off before he started to explain himself to her, and by a blessing the tea arrived.

All his cousins except the youngest, Claretta, were older than he and had married before he moved to St. Raven’s Mount. He hardly knew them, but they all, and especially Cornelia, believed they had the right to manage him.

He ignored the cup of tea she poured for him.

“I am perfectly aware of my duties, cousin, including my duty to set up my nursery. I have only been back in England a few months, however.”

“You’ve had a season, met all the possibles. What point in delay?”

He was not mad enough to speak of love. Cornelia had, after all, married Tremaine, a singularly unpleasant man, doubtless for his rank as one of England’s senior earls.

“Marriage is not a matter to rush into.”

“Nonsense. You think it will cut up your pleasure. Choose the right girl, and she won’t deign to notice your wild parties at Nun’s Chase, or your mistresses.”

“I do not have even one mistress.”

“That’s likely the problem. Set one up, marry, and settle down.”

This view of “settling down” almost struck him as funny, but then it became depressing. It was the way of their world, and it was doubtless his future, but he couldn’t contemplate it just now.

Unless Cressida…

No. Once he had entertained the idea, but now it would not do. He could never put her in a position of less than perfect honor.